Hope Remembered V: Priestess
by Parda
Summary: On New Year's Day 1997, Cassandra reclaims her power as a priestess then spars with Richie Ryan.


_"Hope Remembered V: Priestess" Highlander Fanfiction (March 2000) by Parda_  
><em>DISCLAIMER: Not my universe, not my characters, no money made. Rated PG<em>

_**MANY THANKS TO:** Bridget and Vi: for staying with me through all of Hope—both remembered and forgotten. It wouldn't have been the same without you! Better betas and friends I could not hope to find._

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><p><strong>Hope Remembered V<strong>

**PRIESTESS**

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><p><em><strong>a promise of the future<strong>_

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><p><strong><strong>31 December 1996<strong>**

The snowfall last night had turned to sleet, but the morning brought rare sunshine and blue sky. When Cassandra looked out the window of her room in the inn that morning, the world shone white and glittered with crystalline beauty. Each tree branch was outlined, each bush in the garden lace-covered.

Cassandra pulled on her boots and put on her coat, then headed outside, as she had done every morning since she had arrived here five days ago. She had gone walking in the afternoons, too—long, solitary walks: through the glens, up the hills, along the side of the loch. In the evenings, she stayed in her room and played her harp. She was not yet ready to sing.

She walked to the waterfall and watched the flickers of sun in the chattering water, then went back to the inn. Mrs. Reid's cheerful red-and-black checkered coat blazed bright against the snow-covered garden. "Did you walk far today, Miss Grant?" the inn-keeper called while pouring black sunflower seeds into the birdfeeder.

"I went up the glen to the waterfall," Cassandra answered, as she shut the wooden gate behind her. "It's not frozen yet, but the pool is covered with ice."

"I always said walking was the best," Mrs. Reid said, pushing her white knitted cap back from her forehead, revealing curling wisps of gray hair. "You can see things that way. Of course, most of the winter-time guests here are mad for the skiing, and they can't see anything, whizzing away down the hills. I don't see the thrill of it myself. And with all this ice we had last night, the slopes have to be slippery. I'm sure we'll have at least two guests who come back with broken arms or legs or even worse."

Cassandra merely nodded, knowing from recent experience that Mrs. Reid was quite capable of continuing a conversation on her own.

"Yes, quite the ice we had last night," Mrs. Reid was saying as she walked to the birdfeeder in front of the kitchen window, her booted footprints small and precise in the snow. "And the weight of it, mind! Why, just look at that tree," she said, waving toward a small tree that stood in front of the brick wall that surrounded the garden. Or rather, a small trunk. Dark knurls of branches poked up from the snow beneath, like charred bones piercing white skin, and jagged wounds of cream-colored wood gleamed on the stump where the branches had been ripped off last night. "I'll have to have Mr. Reid come out with the chainsaw."

"To take the trunk out," Cassandra said.

"Why, no, I don't think so," Mrs. Reid answered. "The roots are still healthy, I suspect. Mr. Reid will trim the broken bits, so the tree can heal them easier. It'll be a years before it bears apples again, but I don't think we should give up on it yet." Birdseed rattled on the tin pan as she poured, then Mrs. Reid threw a few handfuls of seed on the snow. "That'll bring them," she said in satisfaction, then turned to Cassandra. "You'll be wanting your coffee, I shouldn't wonder, what with your long walk in the cold. Go on then; I'll be in a bit to start breakfast."

"Thank you," Cassandra said with a smile, then she went into the house to get warm.

* * *

><p>The sleet again started at lunchtime, a fine hissing rain of stinging ice. Cassandra decided to forgo her afternoon walk and play the harp instead. She needed the practice. Her dynamics were still off, and she did not have the speed or control she wanted, but at least she could manage more than simple chords and a melody now. She was working on the left hand accompaniment to the song Greensleeves when a knock sounded on her door.<p>

Cassandra laid the harp down carefully on the four-poster bed, then crossed the room and opened the heavy wooden door to Jane Drummond, a slender woman with graying blonde hair, one of those guests who was "mad for skiing." She and Cassandra had enjoyed pleasant chats over breakfast this last week, talking about books and history and gardening.

"Sandra," Jane said, coming into the room, "I was walking by and heard the music. I didn't know you played the harp. May I see it?" Cassandra nodded, and Jane went to the harp on the bed. "Are these metal strings? Is this an old folk harp?"

"This one is new," Cassandra said, shutting the door, "but, yes, it's a clarsach."

"It's lovely," Jane said, bending to look at the inlaid knot design on the pillar. "Have you had it long?"

"It was a Christmas gift," Cassandra replied. "I haven't played for some years, and I'm getting reacquainted."

"You play beautifully now," Jane said.

Cassandra smiled. "It's difficult to make ugly music on a harp."

"True," Jane agreed, with a quick smile in return, the fine wrinkles at the corners of her dark brown eyes creasing, "but not many play the wire-strung harp these days. It's mostly nylon strings." She considered Cassandra for a moment, then said, "You know I'm the headmistress for Rousby Hall, a girls' school near Fort William. I'd like the girls to have the chance to learn the clarsach."

Cassandra nodded, remembering an article she had read recently about the resurgence of the older-style folk music.

Jane was still talking. "We're a small school, built on the grounds of an old abbey. We have about two hundred girls, mostly boarders, some day-students. We can't pay much, but some of the single teachers live in the dormitories and eat in the dining hall with the girls. The next term starts on the sixth of January." She stopped and smiled at Cassandra then asked, "Would you like to teach music there?"

Cassandra opened her mouth to say no, then shut it and took a few steps to stand in front of the window. The thick, bubbled glass of the small panes blurred the sleet into a gray mist, and the trunk of the apple tree was barely visible across the garden, but she could still see it.

She turned back to Jane. "Yes," Cassandra said. "I'd like to teach."

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><p>The next morning Cassandra said good-bye to Jane and Mr. and Mrs. Reid. "I'll see you this weekend at the school," Jane called after her, and Cassandra nodded and waved as she got in her rental car. The sun had just come up, a brightness peeking above the mountains, and Cassandra hummed a little as she drove along, making plans. She could probably get by without a car, living on campus and eating with the girls. Her day-to-day expenses shouldn't be much, and her room would be furnished. All she really needed were some new clothes. Everything she owned in the world was in her suitcase and her duffel bag. Or on the seat beside her. Cassandra reached over to caress her carefully-wrapped harp that lay next to her sword.<p>

She followed the road signs for Glencoe and stopped a few miles south of the town, then left her car in the car park by the side of the road and walked up the old track that led through the glen. Ice and snow crunched under her boots as she passed by the waterfall, and her feet slipped as she climbed. The wind blew strong between the hills, whipping her hair across her face. The last time she had been here, nearly four and a half centuries ago, the air had been rich with the smell of flowers and fresh-cut hay, and she had been riding a horse.

The last time she had been here, she had come to see Ramirez. That had not changed, though so much else had.

At the top of the small rise lay a jumbled pile of stones, rough-hewn into blocks, their edges rounded by time and weather, softened today by the covering of snow. Cassandra crouched near the pile, sheltering from the wind, then cleared away the snow and ice from a small rock with the side of her hand. She set a short, white candle there and lit it.

"For you," she said, cupping her hands around the flame as she started on the litany of the names she had known him by, with a silent prayer between each one, "Juan Sanchez Villa-Lobos Ramirez, Lucius Macedo, Xanthos, Tak-Ne." She watched the wax slowly cascading down the side of the candle and the flame guttering in the wind, as she remembered the soft dark velvet of his voice, the smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes, and the sure and gentle touch of his hands on her in the warmth of their bed. Or on the beach, or in a haystack, or in a meadow of wildflowers. Oh, he had been a lovely man!

"The Kurgan is dead now," she told him when the candle had nearly gone out. "Connor took his head. You were right about your student; he is stubborn and arrogant." She had to smile at that. "But he's a good man." Now her smile came through tears. "As were you."

The candle burned lower, and the flame sputtered and died. The wick glowed red in the pool of white wax, faded to black and then to gray. "I miss you, Tak-Ne," Cassandra said softly. "I miss you still." She placed one of the stones atop the puddled wax, then stood to face the wind. The air was fresh and smelled of the sea, and the breeze froze the thin tracks of tears on her cheeks into cold stripes that burned.

The sun had risen high above the mountains; the gray clouds gave way to blue sky in the east. Cassandra turned from the cairn and went back down the hill, but she left the track to walk over to the waterfall. The water cascaded down the steep side of the mountain, not oozing and flowing like the wax, but chattering and sparkling, a joyous outpouring of noise and motion, flashing into white spray and foam on the rocks, urging never-ending ripples to the edges of the ice-rimmed pool.

Why not?

Cassandra did not stop to think. She pulled off her boots and coat, then stripped off her wool slacks and sweater and hung her clothes from the rowan tree that grew near the cliff. Socks and underwear went next. The snow was even more slippery now, cold between her toes and a fierce biting ache on her ankles. She ran, then slowed as she stepped onto the rocks in the pool. The spray struck her first, an icy mist that further tightened her nipples and brought more goosebumps to her trembling flesh. One more step, one more rock, and ... there!

Goddess, it was cold! Her ears rang with the pounding of the water and the pulsing of her blood, and her skin quivered under the deluge. She tilted her head back and opened her mouth, swallowing what she could, letting the rest run free. Two more seconds was enough. She leapt into the pool, a shallow dive that took her halfway across the water, and it needed only a few quick strokes to bring her to shore.

The ice crunched under her feet as she climbed out, yet the air felt warm. Her skin glowed as her heart raced to pump her blood throughout her body, and she twirled, her wet hair streaming out behind her, whipping around her face. She was gloriously, exquisitely, alive.

She was alive, and she was free.

Cassandra sank to her knees and closed her eyes for a moment, then reached for her slacks and rummaged through the pocket. Her hands did not tremble as she fastened the clasp of the carved stone necklace Alex had given to her, and the triple-crescent pendant lay cool against her skin. Cassandra remembered well the feel of it, the touch against her heart, the life she had regained. She could live the way she wanted; she could laugh, and she could love.

She was a priestess once again.

She was also beginning to feel cold; the warm glow from the icy plunge was fading. Cassandra reached for her clothes, and a small branch of the tree broke off in her hand, the wood made delicate by the storm. A cluster of crimson berries came with the branch, all encased under a jacket of ice. Cassandra stopped, then laid her other hand on the main trunk of the tree, palm flat, fingers splayed, listening for the heartbeat of the tree. Slow and sluggish it was there, a frozen murmur instead of the quick leaping pulse of life that would come with the spring, but she could feel it even so.

"Thank you," Cassandra murmured to the tree and to the Goddess, "for this gift."

She finished dressing, shivering, her feet still burning with the cold, then flaked the ice off the rowan branch, eating bits of it, before slipping the piece of wood and its berries into her coat pocket.

Cassandra got in her car and rearranged her sword next to her harp, then settled the three shallow bowls on the floor. The silver bowls were quaiches, Celtic drinking vessels with a handle on each side, used to pledge friendship. A few days ago, she had bought each twin a bowl as a naming gift, and then the next day she had gone back to the store and bought a bowl for herself. Cassandra turned the heat on full blast and spent a few minutes massaging the blood back into her tingling feet, then headed for the MacLeod farm in Glenaladale, her fingers caressing the smooth wood of the rowan wand as she drove, her pendant warm between her breasts.

She had everything she needed now to begin again.

* * *

><p>Cassandra arrived at the MacLeod farm a little before lunchtime, then went upstairs to the nursery to say hello to Alex and see the ten-day-old babies. Alex's mother, Margaret, held a sleeping Sara, and Alex was breastfeeding Colin in the rocking chair. Yuki Osato, one of the instructors at the karate dojo Connor had had built in the village, sat cross-legged on the floor, nursing little Keiko, her two-month-old baby.<p>

"They've grown so much already!" Cassandra said softly into the peacefulness of the room, and Alex and Yuki both looked up with tired, happy smiles.

"They should," Alex said wryly. "All they do is eat."

"That's all I do, too," Yuki said. "I'm always hungry. And thirsty."

"I'll bring drinks," Cassandra suggested. "Everyone here has her hands full."

Rachel, Connor's long-ago-adopted daughter, was in the kitchen making sandwiches and chatting with the tall, white-haired housekeeper, Mrs. MacNabb. "Where are all the men?" Cassandra asked, after she had greeted them both and started to prepare a tray.

"Outside," Mrs. MacNabb said, industriously scrubbing the trestle table. "They kept eating the food for the party this afternoon, and John and Richie were bouncing off the walls, trying to show how they went slaloming on skis when they were in the Alps this last week, until Alex told them all to clear out so the twins could sleep."

"Connor took them running," Rachel said with a wicked grin as she sliced the bread, and Cassandra returned it in full. John and Richie wouldn't be so energetic when they returned; Connor could wear out anybody running. "Duncan said he'd rather ride a horse," Rachel continued, "so he and Hideyo went to do that."

"Mr. MacNabb will be here later," volunteered Mrs. MacNabb. "He went to pick up our granddaughter Ellie from the train, so there'll be thirteen of us at the christening, not counting the babies, of course."

"Of course," murmured Cassandra, heading for the stairs to go back to the nursery, carrying the tray of drinks. Amazingly, both Keiko and Colin soon fell asleep, too, so the women went back downstairs to eat in the dining room.

Lunch was almost finished when Cassandra sensed the approach of Immortals. She made her way to the diamond-paned window of the dining room to see Connor jogging past, trailed by John and then, even farther behind, by a young man with reddish hair whom she assumed was Richie Ryan, Duncan's former student. In the distance, she could see Duncan and Hideyo approaching on horseback. "Looks like everyone is here," Cassandra announced, then carried some plates into the kitchen to wash.

"John," Cassandra called after the men had eaten lunch, and the boy stopped halfway up the stairs and looked down at her from over the banister, his eyes black in the dimness of the hall. "You're taking piano lessons, aren't you?" she asked.

"Yeah," he answered. "Ever since we moved here two years ago. We didn't have a piano in Morocco."

"Do you still have beginners' books about how to read music? Note values, key signatures, that sort of thing?"

He grimaced, a wrinkling of his nose and a moue of distaste. "Theory books. Yeah." He thumped his way back down the stairs, jumping the last three steps. "Why? You already know music."

"I know how to play. I never learned how to read it." Not the modern scores, anyway. "Can I see the books?"

"Sure!" he said, and she followed him into the living room and waited while he rummaged through a pile of books stored in the piano bench. "Here are the ones I started with," he said, pulling out a battered purple book labeled Beginning Master Theory and a red one with First Grade written large on the cover. "Want me to show you?" he offered with eager helpfulness.

"Yes, of course," Cassandra accepted, unable to refuse such enthusiasm, and he stood there smiling at her until she sat on one side of the bench. John sat beside her and began pointing out the notes in the book and then on the piano keys, his fingers running up and down scales and then playing out different rhythms as they worked their way through the book.

"Oh, they're fractions," Cassandra said in pleased discovery and recognition when John starting talking about four-four time and eighth notes and dotted quarter notes. Math didn't change throughout the years. She followed his lead and played a line, then played the next one by herself. "I think I'm ready for a song," she said, and John opened the red book for her. First the left hand, then the right, then both together with her foot tapping out time. Again and faster, then once more, and on to the next page, then the next one and the next.

John stood to give her room to play, and she smiled up at him in joy. "Thank you, John. You explained it wonderfully."

"Sure," he said diffidently. "But I guess you already knew it, huh?"

"I've played music for a very long time," she reminded him gently, hearing the deflated pride and youthful uncertainty in his voice. "Does it take a black-belt long to learn a new kata in karate?"

"No," he said, considering that. "Dad and Uncle Dunc learn them really fast. And I'm getting faster," he added, cheerful and optimistic again. "Just takes practice, right?"

"Right," she agreed, and John gave her another smile and left her to practice some more.

Cassandra was on the second-grade music book when Duncan came into the living room. She shut the piano and joined him in the two chairs in front of the fire. "How was the skiing trip?" she asked.

"Great!" Duncan said. "Richie and John really hit it off. I think they've both missed having brothers."

Methos probably missed his brothers, too. Cassandra rose abruptly and went past the Christmas tree to the liquor cabinet in the corner, then poured herself a glass of water as she wondered where Methos was now. She had found a family with the MacLeods—Connor and Duncan were like brothers to her now, and Alex was her best friend—but Methos might very well be alone.

He deserved to be.

Cassandra dismissed that from her mind, refused to think of him at all. Not today, not here, not now. She turned as Richie Ryan came into the living room, beer in hand. Cassandra automatically evaluated his age, his stance, his reach, and his probable fighting capabilities. Beyond that, she saw a young, North American male, dressed in blue slacks and a white wool sweater she suspected had been bought for the occasion. His cheerful face held a hint of wariness in his bright blue eyes, but his smile was open and friendly. That would change, given time.

"So, you're Cassandra," Richie said, focusing his attention on her, the glint in his eye letting her know he appreciated her as a woman, the respect in his voice letting her know he knew just what and who she was. "Mac's told me a lot about you."

"And he's told me a lot about you," Cassandra responded, coming back toward the center of the room, and she smiled as Richie's grin faded a bit. "Maybe you and I should go talk about him," she suggested, and Richie's grin immediately reappeared.

"Uh, Cassandra?" Duncan called, but Cassandra and Richie were already heading for the seclusion of the guest suite. She gave Duncan a brilliant smile over her shoulder as she left the room, and he responded with a half-hearted wave, then settled back in his chair.

She and Richie talked about Duncan for a while, about what he had been like as a teacher, about what he was like now as a friend, but eventually Cassandra decided she needed to know Richie's opinion of Methos, no matter how distasteful that man's name was on her tongue.

"So, you and Methos know each other?" Richie asked in all innocence, lounging back in the chair in the sitting room, his legs stretched out in front of him. "I mean, both you guys are really old, right?"

"Right," Cassandra agreed dryly, "though he's _really_ old. But yes, he and I know each other. I met him about the time I became an Immortal."

"Was he your teacher?"

"I learned a lot from him," Cassandra answered evenly, "but he didn't take on students then. My first teacher was a woman."

"Probably just as well you didn't get Methos," Richie observed. "I don't think I'd like him as a teacher. I only met him about a year ago, and I didn't even know he was 'Methos' until a couple of months ago. I thought he was some just some newbie Immortal, all wide-eyed and eager to learn. Seems like that was just an act, because now that I know who he is, he's kind of arrogant and annoying, you know?"

Cassandra knew.

Richie laughed. "But some people have told me that I'm arrogant and annoying, and sometimes I think Mac is, too."

"And so is Connor," Cassandra put in.

Richie nodded knowingly. "Oh, yeah!" He shrugged. "I guess we're all kind of like that, so we probably shouldn't hold it against Methos. He's just had a lot more practice."

"You're probably right," Cassandra murmured, and it was true. They were all like that, every single one of them.

"I've only met Methos those two times, so I don't really know him," Richie said, leaning forward to pick up his beer from the small table between the chairs. "But he and Mac are pretty tight, and Mac's a sharp guy. He's careful about who he calls a friend."

"That's why he chose you as his student," Cassandra said warmly, "and why he calls you friend now."

Richie managed to look both pleased and embarrassed, and he almost blushed. "Well, yeah, I mean ... I wasn't ... Mac's a great guy, you know? He's helped me a lot."

"He's helped me, too," Cassandra told the young man, speaking only the truth but also building on the similarities between them.

"You mean with Roland this summer?" Richie asked.

"Yes," Cassandra said, and then, not sure what Duncan had told Richie of the Horsemen, added evasively, "and more recently."

"Another ancient enemy?" Richie said, and Cassandra nodded but offered nothing more. "So, are you, like, really a witch?" Richie asked.

Cassandra automatically smiled through her sudden panic and rage. How dare Duncan expose her so, call her by that name? Witches were hanged and burned and mutilated; she'd seen so many die.

"Mac told me he met you in the forest when he was a kid, that you have visions and stuff," Richie continued, more curious than frightened, more interested than threatening.

Cassandra eased the air out slowly, let go of the anger, too. The word "witch" wasn't so dangerous anymore, at least in this part of the world, and Duncan hadn't done anything wrong. She had no reason to be angry. She could see that now. "Many women who live alone are called witches," Cassandra said, forcing her voice to smoothness, tempted to leave it there, as she had so many times before. But she wasn't going to lie anymore, and she didn't want to hide. "Perhaps I deserve the title more than most," she admitted to Richie. "But I think of myself as a priestess, not a witch."

"This fall I was dating a girl who said she was both."

"Really?" Cassandra said in blank surprise.

"In California, near Santa Cruz," Richie said. "There's a lot of it out there, people using crystals and pentacles and stuff. Her name was Shelley, but she called herself Moonshadow, and she was in a coven with some other witches. We had some great parties on the beach when the moon was full, and the people were nice enough, a little weird, maybe. At least none of them thought it was strange that I had my own sword. Most of them had daggers, called them athames."

"In California," Cassandra repeated, wondering if she should go there, just to see.

"That's always been a place for wild things to start, but the pagan stuff is all over the world now. Just do a search on the Web," Richie suggested.

"I will," Cassandra said, intrigued. She had isolated herself for so long that she hadn't realized how much things were changing. Pagans and priestesses dancing under the moon, communicating over the World Wide Web. Cassandra wondered what the Goddess of Weaving would think of that.

"Hey, that reminds me!" Richie said, putting down his beer and jumping to his feet. "I've got something for you. I'll be right back." He returned in a few moments with a small package wrapped in a green cloth, and he set it on the coffee table between them. "Shelley left these Tarot cards with me when she decided to get a new deck. When Duncan told me you were going to be here, I thought, 'Cassandra's the one for these.' I didn't know what else to get you for a Christmas present, and Shelley said she didn't expect me to keep them long, that I should pass them along." He paused uncertainly, for Cassandra had made no move to reach for the cards. "Do you use Tarot cards? I mean, Mac said you saw the future, and I thought ..."

"Yes, thank you, Richie," Cassandra said warmly as she picked up the deck, trying to atone for her lack of response. She hadn't expected this, not so soon. "I've seen Tarot cards, but I've never had a deck of my own."

"I tried it a couple of times, but it's just not me," Richie said. "Shelley did my readings sometimes, and she almost always got the Death card. She thought that was pretty strange, but then, hey, I'm Immortal, you know?" Richie leaned back in his chair, one leg stretched out and the other one crossed over his knee, his hands behind his head. "I figured we always get that one popping up, right?" He tilted his head farther back, to look behind him at the black and white photograph hanging on the wall, a single ancient tree with twisted branches.

"I suppose," Cassandra murmured, looking away from Richie's neck to the green and white Celtic intertwining on the backs of the cards.

"You want to do a reading?" Richie asked, straightening up.

Cassandra hesitated, then accepted the gift fully, recognizing it—and Richie—as the final pieces to the pattern. "Yes," she said, "I will. A reading for you. But not now, I think. I need to learn how to use them first. Thank you for this gift, Richie," she said again, truly meaning it. "I wish I had something to give to you."

He leaned forward conspiratorially "Oh, I think you do."

"What do you mean?"

Richie's grin deepened. "Tell me the truth about what happened in Donan Woods when Duncan was thirteen."

Cassandra considered him, then told the tale.

"So, he saw you bathing in the pool," Richie said when she had finished, and she could tell he was trying to imagine that very scene. "And you kissed him in the morning. And ... that night?" Richie asked, with a suggestive grin.

"That night?" Cassandra repeated then decided to tell Richie all. "That night I showed Duncan something he'd never done before," she confided with an arch smile. "He caught on very quickly, and he's gotten much better at it over the years."

Richie half-snorted, half-smirked. "I bet."

"Connor said Duncan was very good, too."

Richie's eyes went wide. "Connor?"

"Oh, yes. Although I don't think they've done it at all since Connor got married. But Duncan certainly hasn't suffered from a lack of partners."

"No," Richie agreed, sounding somewhat strangled.

"In fact, Duncan told me he learned a great deal of his technique from a priest named Darius."

"Darius?" Richie repeated, his voice cracking slightly.

"Yes, they played chess quite often," Cassandra concluded serenely. "Haven't you played chess with Duncan?"

"Uh, yeah," Richie said, floundering. "I mean, a couple of games, but I don't really ... So, you taught Duncan how to play chess that night?"

"Just chess, Richie," Cassandra said firmly. "Nothing more." Duncan had given her a chess set for Christmas, a reminder of that time, and he had beaten her in every single game they had played so far. Cassandra was determined to change that, too.

"Are you going to be staying in Europe?" she asked Richie as she wrapped the cards. "Maybe we can meet sometime and do that reading. I'm going to be staying in Scotland for the next six months." Or maybe even the next six years; she wouldn't have to move all the time now.

"Yeah, I was thinking of staying, now that I'm on this side of the Atlantic," Richie said. "Mac and I are going to hang around in Scotland for a while, maybe a week or two, while he shows me the 'old neighborhood.' After that, I thought I'd go down to Monte Carlo and see the sights, then maybe tour the Greek islands. Should I give you a call in a couple of months?"

"Yes," Cassandra said and wrote down the telephone number of the school and handed it to him. A few months should give her enough time to become familiar with the cards. "Ask for Sandra Grant. That's the name I'm using now." She had wanted a completely new name to go with her new life, but changing all the paperwork was tiresome—and expensive—so she had settled for using C. Sandra Grant instead of Catherine S. Grant. It should last her for another ten or even fifteen years.

"And just you," Cassandra told Richie, wanting to get to know this young man better. "Not Duncan." Richie hesitated, the wariness in his eyes more than a glint now. "We could meet on holy ground or in a public place," Cassandra suggested, knowing exactly why he was reluctant.

Richie merely nodded, with no excuses, no protestations of pretended trust, then looked her up and down again. He wasn't flirting now. "OK," he said finally. "Just you and me. We'll figure out the place later."

Cassandra glanced at her watch. "Want to spar?" she asked. "It'll be at least two hours before the naming ceremony. I just got a new sword, and I need to get used to it." Richie stood, accepting the challenge, and Cassandra stood, too, eager to get started. She needed the practice, and she wanted to learn more about Richie, while she had the chance.

* * *

><p>Connor appeared in the doorway of the exercise room over the stable, but Cassandra ignored him and kept her attention on her opponent. Richie and she had been in the exercise room above the stables for nearly an hour, warming up and doing katas, then running through a few drills. He'd beaten her in the first bout, and she'd beaten him in the second, with a move he'd never seen before, and she'd gotten what she wanted to know. Richie lacked the flair and the grace of Duncan, but he got the job done, and he didn't back off in the face of pain, either given or received. He was a solid, accomplished swordsman, and he had obviously survived a number of fights. He had probably taken more heads in his three years as an Immortal than she had in her three thousand.<p>

"Best two out of three," he had suggested, and so here they were again. Cassandra blew a strand of sweat-soaked hair back from her face and looked for an opening as they circled. Richie was taller, so his reach was longer than hers, and he was stronger and heavier than she was, too. No surprise there. He was a man.

But he was also slower. Cassandra used her quickness to sidestep his thrust, and was rewarded with his muttered oath as she cut into his upper arm with a horizontal slash.

It was a short-lived victory. Richie immediately twirled to face her, pushing her back and forcing her to parry a series of hard two-handed blows that made her shoulder ache. He ducked under her faltering swing, then grabbed her wrist in his left hand and twisted, an Aikido move designed to land her flat on her back. Cassandra had seen the move before, but that didn't mean she could counter it.

Cassandra bit into her lip and stayed on her feet, but her wrist gave way with an agonizing crack, and her sword clattered to the floor as her fingers spasmed in pain. An instant later, the point of his sword hovered two fingers' breadth away from the pulse in her throat, while he held her immobile and helpless, his left hand still clamped around the broken bones.

"Gotcha," he said, grinning at her in triumph.

"Yes, you do," she agreed pleasantly, ignoring the throbbing pain in her wrist and the screaming panic that gibbered in the back of her mind: _Let me go, let me go, let me go! Not the hands, not the fingers, not the wrists! O Goddess, please, no, not again! Let me GO!_

But this wasn't Roland, wasn't Methos. Richie didn't force her to her knees or break any more of her bones. He let go carefully and stepped back as he lowered his sword, then bowed. Cassandra bowed in return, a slight and meaningless smile plastered on her face, but she didn't move or speak as the healing began and the panic ebbed away, leaving dead calm.

Connor nodded in approval to Richie, who gave him a cocky grin and went to pick up a towel from the stack near the weight bench. Connor had no nod of approval for her. "You need practice," he told her.

"Yes," she agreed, as she always agreed, as her bones settled into place as they had done many times before. She stood there waiting, wondering if the punishment were over, if he would let her move yet, if she could dare to ask him if she could sit down.

And then she realized who he was. Connor, that was Connor! Not Roland, not Methos, but Connor, and that was Richie near the window. They had been sparring; that was all. No punishing, no waiting for the men to hurt her, no begging them for permission anymore. Cassandra swore viciously to herself, then swore even more viciously _at_ herself, and she forced herself to move enough to pick her sword up off the floor. Stupid, blind, obedient, _programmed_ fool!

"Cassandra?" Connor called, coming into the room.

She lifted her head and tossed back her ponytail, smiling all the while. "I'm fine," she told him, standing up, her sword hilt solid and reassuring in her hand, with only the memory of pain left behind. Connor's eyes narrowed and he took a step closer, and Cassandra immediately lifted the tip of her sword, ready to kill him if he moved. Not again. No one was going to hurt her like that again. She wasn't going to be "obedient" anymore.

Connor stopped, and Richie dropped the towel on the floor. "Whoa, guys," he said hesitantly, and Connor backed away, his hands spread wide.

"Cassandra," Connor called again, a firm reminder of who and what she was, and Cassandra took a deep breath and put up her sword, resting the blade against her upper arm. Screaming panic, blind fury, and deadly calm swirled within her, a maelstrom with no eye. She centered on the stone pendant tucked under her shirt, felt its weight against her heart, listened to the pulse within her veins.

She set the sword on the floor, then walked with deliberate steps to the far corner of the room. She sat there, her back against two walls, watching the men from the safest place she could find. Safe for her, and safe for them.

"Uh, somebody want to explain to me what just happened?" Richie said, looking between Connor and Cassandra.

"You broke my wrist," Cassandra said, each word precise and calm.

"Yeah. So?"

"Someone else did that to me," she explained. "Over and over again. It brings back bad memories." She shrugged and stood up, feeling safer now. "I get ... defensive."

"Hey, I'm sorry," Richie said earnestly. "I didn't know. I mean, I—"

"It's all right, Richie," Cassandra broke in, managing a smile. "You couldn't have known." She turned to Connor, knowing she had to do this now or she would completely lose her nerve. "Are you willing to help me get back in practice?" she asked him. "Once a week? Saturdays, maybe?"

"That's a great idea," Richie said, "especially since you'll be living so close together. Finding a sparring partner is always tough."

"Living so close?" Connor questioned her immediately.

"I'll be teaching music at a girls' school south of Fort William," Cassandra told him. "I start on Monday."

Connor nodded slowly. "Good. You haven't taught lately."

"No," Cassandra agreed. "Not lately." That was changing, too.

Connor examined her with a critical eye, then turned to Richie. "Why don't you go grab a shower, Richie. MacNabb and his granddaughter Ellie are here, and we want to start the christening in half-an-hour."

"Half-an-hour?" Richie yelped, and both Cassandra and Connor looked at him in surprise.

"What do you need to do?" Connor asked with elaborate politeness. "Blow dry your hair?"

"Who, me?" Richie said, all innocence. "I was thinking of Cassandra. I mean, she's got long hair, and she might—"

"I can be ready in fifteen minutes," she told him, and Richie nodded hurriedly, picked up his sword, and left.

Connor waited until Richie's footsteps faded away on the stairs, then Connor said, "You want to explain to me what just happened?"

"As I said," Cassandra replied, going back to the center of the room to pick up her sword, "I had a bad moment, that's all. Just a flash of memory."

"No more lies, remember?" he told her, hard and unamused. "You weren't 'fine.'"

"I was doing 'fine' until you came after me!" she snapped, straightening with her sword in her hand, but holding it down, with the point toward the floor. "I was dealing with it."

"I didn't 'come after' you," Connor bit out. "I took one step—"

"And you should know better than to come anywhere near me when I'm frightened or angry and I have a sword in my hand!" Her fingers had tightened around the hilt, and Cassandra made them relax one by one. "You should know," she repeated, more quietly now, clutching at the ragged edges of her self-control. The first time he'd done that, she'd stood there and let him kill her; the last time he'd done that, she'd nearly taken his head.

Connor snorted in exasperation, then he nodded slowly once more. "Yeah," he agreed. "I should."

"So, do you want to spar on weekends?" she asked again, refusing to let her fear control her, refusing to back down. Never again. Connor didn't answer right away, and a thin, white-hot streak of satisfaction ran along her veins. "Afraid?" she challenged.

Connor didn't back down, either. "I prefer my sparring partners to be ... balanced."

"I was doing fine with Richie, until he broke my wrist," she defended herself. "And I've sparred with other people lately. I haven't ..." She sighed and tried again. "I am dealing with it, Connor, but it's going to take some time. Just don't make me angry, and don't break my hands."

"All right," Connor agreed finally, with a hint of a bow, and more than a hint of a smile. "We'll try that. And we'll be careful."

Cassandra bowed back and then glanced at the clock on the wall. Twenty minutes. "Got to go!" she told Connor cheerfully, and she headed to the house to get ready.

* * *

><p>They gathered in the living room, all thirteen of them, plus the three infants. Cassandra had already rearranged the furniture and spoken to the participants, so Rachel, Hideyo, Yuki, and Duncan took their places standing in front of the fireplace, while John sat in one of the chairs nearby. Connor and Alex sat on the couch facing the fireplace, each holding one of the twins, who were both asleep again—for now. Richie lounged on the piano bench, and the MacNabbs took two of the straight-backed chairs next to the piano. Alex's mother, Margaret, was walking little Keiko back and forth in front of the bookcases that lined the north wall.<p>

Cassandra went over to Ellie, a tall girl of about thirteen, dressed in gray slacks and a pink sweater, who was leaning against the wall in the corner near the door and fiddling with the ends of her long, brown braids, looking uncomfortable in a room full of strangers. "Would you be willing to carry Colin from Mrs. MacLeod over to Duncan and Mrs. Osato, then hold Colin while the naming is done?" Cassandra asked. "You don't have to say anything or do anything else."

"Yes, I can do that," Ellie answered.

"Good!" Cassandra said. "You can sit in the other chair near the fire, next to John." Ellie took her place, sitting on the edge of her seat, and Cassandra looked at the pair of young people approvingly. Old Scottish custom decreed that an infant should be carried by a young, unmarried woman on the way to the baptism, but this was the twentieth century, after all. John could help, too.

Ellie wasn't the only one feeling nervous. Cassandra took a deep breath as she smoothed the folds of her long, green skirt and straightened her white tunic under her belt of silver links. Then she touched her triple-crescent pendant briefly before she went to the open area of the room, standing with her back to the Christmas tree and facing the people.

"Happy New Year," she greeted everyone, and murmured responses came from around the room. Cassandra exhaled slowly, inhaled and began, letting the words flow as they would. Short and simple, of course, before the twins woke up. "New year, new beginning, new life." In many ways. "Today we gather to honor Sara and Colin." Cassandra motioned to the presents for the twins that lay in a pile on a table, to be opened when the ceremony was done. "We bring them gifts; we welcome them to their new home."

Cassandra faced the four in front of the fireplace, and they straightened a little as she called their names. "Rachel, Hideyo, Yukari, and Duncan—you have each agreed to help and support Alexandra and Connor on their journey as parents." Cassandra looked over at Alex and Connor, both of whom already had dark circles under their eyes and that limp bone-tired posture that came from night after night of interrupted sleep. They were going to need all the help they could get.

"Taking care of children is a long road," Cassandra cautioned the parents and godparents. "The first few years, it may seem more like a tunnel." Mrs. MacNabb and Alex's mother were nodding in recognition, and Yuki and Alex were looking a little grim.

"Sometimes it seems all uphill," Cassandra continued, and now Mr. MacNabb and Connor were nodding. "Sometimes you don't know if you're on the right path, or if you're just going in circles." Cassandra saw the glance between Connor and Duncan, the upraised eyebrows, the lightning-quick grins. Teaching Immortals was a long road, too.

"But eventually, the journey leads you home," Cassandra said. "And like so many things in life, the journey is best if shared." Each pair of new parents exchanged tender, hopeful smiles, and Mr. MacNabb reached over and gently patted Mrs. MacNabb's hand. Cassandra's throat tightened, and she blinked back sudden tears. Her first husband, Taleer, had often reached for her hand in just that way, while they had watched their three children play games in the quiet of the evening. Dead now, all of them, and she had raised so many children alone. They were all dead, too—mortal and immortal, loved ... and hated.

Cassandra couldn't breathe, couldn't see. She couldn't do this, couldn't speak words of love and hope in front of all these people. She had begged Duncan to kill her own son, killed her own student, stood by while family after family had died, done nothing while her children had screamed her name. She couldn't do this, she wasn't worthy, it was all a lie.

She half-turned to flee, but Connor caught her eye and smiled at her, a concerned, caring _knowing_ smile. Connor knew. He knew what she had done, what she hadn't done, and still he had asked her to do this ceremony for his children. He believed in her; she couldn't fail him. And she didn't want to fail herself. Cassandra took another calming breath, inhaled the scents of wood-smoke and pine tree, familiar scents from ancient ceremonies performed long ago. New year, new beginning, new life.

She turned her aborted movement into a step forward and allowed the words to flow again. "Children belong to the future. They are our future." She swept her arm in front of her, palm up, including everyone else there: John and Richie, Margaret and the three MacNabbs. "All of us—brother, friend, grandparents, neighbors—all of us share in their life, and all of us should share our lives with them."

She spoke to the young people in the chairs. "Ellie, John, will you bring the children from their parents to their godparents?" Ellie and John rose with nervous dignity, not looking at each other, and Alex carefully handed Colin to Ellie, as Connor smiled at his son and gave John his little sister.

Cassandra moved closer to the fireplace, then invited everyone to form a circle. Ellie stood with Colin between Duncan and Yuki, and John stood with Sara between Rachel and Hideyo, so that the adults could each lay a hand on the infant.

"The mother gives the child life from her body; the father gives the child a name from his heart," Cassandra intoned, another old Celtic custom, a part of the rite especially important today. Immortals were barren, and Alex had become pregnant through artificial insemination. Cassandra knew Connor needed to claim these children as his own.

"Connor, would you come forward and name your children?" She nodded to Richie, and he brought over the small wooden bowl of water, held it up for Connor to reach.

Connor dipped his fingers in the bowl, then traced a cross on his infant son's forehead. "I name my son: Colin Duncan MacLeod." He dipped his fingers again, then turned to his daughter and traced a cross on her. "I name my daughter: Sara Heather MacLeod." His voice had gone husky, and as he stepped back to stand next to his wife, Alex reached for him and laid her head against his shoulder, and Connor slid his arm around her waist.

Duncan and Yuki each touched Colin's forehead with water and repeated his name, then Rachel and Hideyo did the same for Sara. Three drops of water, three times the names had been given, fire was called for now. In the old houses, with the hearth in the center of the room, the babies had been handed to and fro across the flames three times, but in this house, standing in front of the fireplace would have to do. Richie stepped back into the circle of people, and Cassandra said, "Ellie, please give Colin to Duncan, and, John, would you give Sara to your Aunt Rachel, so that they can look upon the children they have named."

The babies were handed over gingerly, and the two young people moved out of the way. Cassandra waited while Duncan and Rachel admired the babies, then nodded for them to pass them along to Yuki and Hideyo. After a moment the parents came forward to reclaim their children, Alex with Sara again, and Colin back in Connor's arms. The infants stirred and whimpered, Colin coming slowly awake and Sara sucking on her fist. The circle reformed with Alex and Connor in front of the fire, flanked by Duncan and Rachel on their right and the Osatos to their left, each couple together again.

"We will remember this day," Cassandra told them, "but Sara and Colin will not. Tell them of it as they grow, each of you in your own way." She picked up the two small blank books from the table next to the couch and lifted them to be seen. "And in these books, write of your wishes for them in the years to come, a gift and a hope and a dream." She set the books down to join hands with Mrs. MacNabb and John, and all joined together as the circle formed anew. "And so, Happy New Year, happy new beginning, and happy new life for us all!"

"And happy birthday!" Duncan called across to Connor, and the circle dissolved in happy laughter and some hugs and a few tears.

"Thank you," Alex said to Cassandra with a one-armed hug, holding Sara off to one side. "That was lovely." She glanced at Connor, laughing with Duncan near the piano, his son John close by and Colin still in his arms. "It was beautiful," Alex said, "and I know Connor thought so, too. It meant a lot to him, to name the children that way."

"I'm glad," Cassandra answered, smiling, glad it was over, glad she had done it, glad that she was here at all. She'd never thought to be a part of any family again.

"Will you be having a proper christening at the church?" Mrs. MacNabb came over to say.

"Oh, yes," Alex replied smoothly. "But as Rachel is Jewish and the Osatos are Shinto, we thought we'd do one here as well."

Connor joined them to add, "A long time ago here in Scotland, all christenings were first done in the home. Not many priests or churches nearby." He turned and gave Cassandra a quick and meaningful smile. "And they were done in just about that way."

"Yes," Cassandra agreed, but there was one more thing she needed to do. "Have you signed their books?" she asked Connor, and when he shook his head she took Colin from him and sent him on his way. Cassandra wandered over to the Christmas tree and held the baby close so he could see the twinkling lights. Water for anointing, fire for purifying, earth—or a tree—for strength, and a name of air for the ears of the child alone. "I name you Gallan," Cassandra said softly to Colin, the Gaelic word for a tree branch or a youth, a stripling who would grow with the wind and the sun and the rain.

She handed the baby over to Alex and took Sara in her arms, while Alex sat on the couch to nurse her son. The little girl was wide awake now, dark blue eyes wondering and solemn as she stared at the evergreen tree, and then into Cassandra's eyes. Cassandra lost herself in that gaze, reached out with one finger to trace the delicate eyebrow, let Sara clench her fist around her thumb. "I name you Caorran," Cassandra whispered, her heart clenching in remembered joyous pain, that awesome awful love which consumes and transfigures and transforms. Caorran—the fruit of the Tree of Quickening, the crimson berries the Goddess had gifted Cassandra with earlier today. Cassandra hadn't held a child for many centuries, hadn't let herself love for many more. New year, new beginning, new life, Cassandra reminded herself, and she accepted this gift of love and responsibility, too.

"Caorran," Cassandra said, more firmly now, and the infant blinked and sneezed in reply. Cassandra laughed and kissed the tiny forehead, then looked up to see Connor's concerned and knowing eyes.

"I'll take my daughter," he offered, reaching for her.

Cassandra murmured, "Of course," as he took Sara from her arms, and they stared at each other for a moment before Cassandra nodded and walked away. The children's books lay on the piano. "Gentleness," Cassandra wrote for Colin, and drew a fruit-laden apple tree, while in Sara's she inscribed the word "Strength" below a rowan tree on a hill, and then Cassandra signed her name.

"Happy New Year!" Mr. MacNabb called as he and Mrs. MacNabb and Ellie left the house, and people called out the same.

Happy New Year, Cassandra repeated to herself, as Duncan threw his arm around Richie's shoulders, both of them laughing at some joke that had just been made. She turned from them to look at Alex and Connor, their heads bent together as they admired their babies, with John sitting close by on the floor and Rachel and Margaret watching from nearby chairs.

New beginnings, Cassandra thought, feeling contented and at peace. New chances, new choices, new life—and an ancient and immortal hope.

* * *

><p><em><strong>For the children and the flowers<strong>_  
><em><strong>are our sisters and our brothers.<strong>_  
><em><strong>Their laughter and their loveliness<strong>_  
><em><strong>Will clear a cloudy day.<strong>_

_**Like the music of the mountains,**_  
><em><strong>and the colors of the rainbow,<strong>_  
><em><strong>They're a promise of the future,<strong>_  
><em><strong>and a blessing for today.<strong>_

**- "Rhymes and Reasons" by John Denver**

* * *

><p><strong>Thus ends<strong>

**HOPE REMEMBERED**  
><strong>Cassandra and the Horsemen<strong>

Cassandra's story is continued in

**HOPE TRIUMPHANT**  
><strong>Cassandra and the Sisterhood<strong>

* * *

><p>For more details about what Cassandra remembered about Ramirez, read "<span>Heart, Faith, and Steel<span>."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Notes<strong>

Jumping into cold water on New Years Day is a time-honored tradition. (Those who do it sometimes describe themselves as members of the Polar Bear Club.) A quick dip can be invigorating. Staying in for more than a minute or so can be deadly. People with heart conditions or other health considerations should probably not attempt it.

The Rowan tree is associated with magic and witchcraft, its branches used for warding off evil. The Celts would use charms and spells involving Rowan to protect their cattle. In Celtic legend, it is connected with either Druids or other practitioners of magic. Rowan is also known as the Tree of Quickening, Round wood, Delight of the Eye, Mountain Ash, and Quickbane.


End file.
